


Leonine Contract

by Steerpike13713



Series: The Death of Koschei the Deathless [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV), Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: (sort of), Alternate Universe - Fusion, Arranged Marriage, M/M, Role Reversal, The Dark One (Once Upon a Time)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-26 13:09:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12059640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Steerpike13713/pseuds/Steerpike13713
Summary: In which Elim Garak, a tailor of the kingdom of Cardassia, makes a deal with Koschei the Deathless and finds he's bitten off more than he can chew.  (Or: In which the author should really stop trying to cross everything over with Once Upon a Time.)





	Leonine Contract

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Once Upon a Tailor](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/322278) by Zappy. 



> I should just like to say, for the record, that this is all Zappy's fault.  
> Deathless!Julian is at least partially her idea, as was much of the plot of this storyline. (Julian Bashir will be his Storybrooke name in this 'verse, should I ever get that far), as we both came to the conclusion that being made into the Dark One would work pretty well as a fantasy parallel to Julian's augmentations.

The order had come from Tain himself, and Garak could not deny him. He had known something of this nature would come from the moment it was proclaimed across Kardasi'or that their king had summoned the Deathless, and it was hoped that he would come. The Deathless never refused a summons, or so it was said, and Cardassia was rich, and old, and proud, and had as much to offer as any petty northern kingdom. He would come - the word of that was in the streets and the tea-houses and the baths, so that even Tain’s little birds could not ferret it out. He would come, and they would be saved, and the city trembled in fear of what the price of that salvation would be, and that, only Garak knew. The life of Koschei the Deathless was not contained within his body, the way the lives of other men were, in beating heart and pumping lungs and the thousand small metabolic processes necessary to life. He kept it outside himself, in a needle, or an egg, or a tree, so that a thousand heroes had gone to try and slay the monster, and none had ever returned to the lands in which they had been born. But his life was still out there, and that, at least, was mortal. That was what Tain wanted.

“There are legends,” he had said, over kanar the night the proclamation went out, when he summoned Garak up to his solar. “I never put much faith in them, as a rule, but the Deathless is real, and something has to have made him that way.”

Garak had sipped his kanar, and nodded, and asked, with as much deference as he might show to a court lady who had ordered a gown made up in entirely the wrong colour for her. “Ah, why? So far as I can tell the world does not lack for immortals.”

“Fairies and goblins and creatures so far removed from humanity they’re hardly worth mentioning,” Tain had said dismissively. “But the Deathless is something besides. Whoever holds the life of Koschei the Deathless holds his power too. Why waste our resources on bargaining with the Deathless when we could have him at our command forever?”

“Why indeed?” Garak paused. “Still...enemies do make dangerous friends, and even more dangerous servants.”

“As dangerous as they are enemies,” Tain agreed, “But if we hold the Deathless’s life, we can end it in moments. Perhaps we will, if he proves uncooperative. You will do this for me, Elim. I would trust no-one else. And, when you return with Koschei’s life…” he smiled, the one that he had worn when Garak, as a child, had come to him with something he had heard in the castle, some titbit or other that had been dropped carelessly, by someone who did not think serving-boys had ears. “I shall let you choose your own reward for that service.”

And Garak had nodded, and drunk his kanar, and not let himself hope too far.

That was how he had come to be here, standing in the great hall of the castle at the heart of the castle city of Kardasi'or, safe and far behind the battle lines, at least for now. The ogres drew closer every day, the city was groaning with the weight of refugees from all four corners of the Empire. Something would have to give, and soon. The king’s face was drawn, his eyes deeply shadowed, and at his side the Princess Iliana’s expression was hard and fixed and resigned. There was a storm howling outside. It was perhaps the one hopeful sign this last year had brought them, and it was nearly deafening now, making the fainter-hearted among the court jump at each crash of thunder. The Deathless always came in storm and thunder, every child knew that. As a boy, Garak had been terrified of storms, had curled tight into a ball in the quiet of the pallet he had shared with his mother in the castle kitchens, remembering the stories of the Deathless with his hand of bones who would come to steal wicked children away. It had been a long time now since children’s tales could frighten him, but now here he was, waiting for the Deathless once again, and listening to the storm outside with the same odd mix of excitement and terror roiling within him. He had been sent to inform on powerful men before. He had been servant to men whose behaviour could rightly be called monstrous before. Koschei himself could be no worse than Procal Dukat had been, and if he was cruel, it would only make the eventual betrayal sweeter for its own sake than all Tain’s promises could be.

The room was abuzz with whispers, schemes, fears. Already, the ogres had entered Cardassia, the homeland itself, more precious and more jealously guarded than any of the far colonies, and no army could turn them back. There could be no treating with the ogres, no diplomacy, no spycraft that would prevail. Only power, and though Cardassia had that in abundance, it had been stretched to its limits in the colonies, and still the ogres kept coming. Garak listened, as was his duty.

“-say they’ll be here within the month-”

“-trading away our country for what we could have kept by strength-”

“-what can he ask of us-?”

It was almost soothing. The usual backbiting, petty jealousies, quarrelling and advantage-seeking even now, when all Cardassia ought to have been united in turning the ogres back. No wonder they were losing this war. The king was listening to petitions, as he had every day since he began his rule. A wasteful habit, Tain had always said, but small problems grew larger if left unattended, and it calmed the people to see their ruler dispensing justice even now, with the ogres drawing closer to their gates each day. Few beyond the court realised how desperate the situation was. Most of the people of Kardasi’or grumbled daily about the rationing, about the flood of refugees, about the soldiers passing through the city, about their fathers and sons and brothers being sent away to fight, but few realised just how close the ogres were, how easily they would sweep over Cardassia, if the defences at Lakarian failed. Day after day, Garak had waited, but now the storm broke over Kardasi’or, and every courtier in the room could feel the awful tension in the air. At last, as the storm reached its height, the double doors swung open, and the whole room seemed to hold its breath, but the figure who stumbled through was short, and swaying on its feet, and dressed in the uniform of the Cardassian army, bloodstained but still recognisable beneath his mail coat.

“Sire!” he gasped out, dropping to kneel at the foot of the dais, “News from the battlefield! Lakarian has fallen, the garrison is-” but then the horror of whatever it was he had seen seemed to choke him. His voice broke. “They’ve sounded the retreat and are falling back to the city. What’s left of them.”

All at once the room, which had fallen all but silent when the doors opened, was full of the sounds of shouts and cries and screams, and the king had to call for silence three times before he could be heard.

“Get this man to a hospital!” he said once the room had fallen quiet again, “We thank you for your message, sir. Evek, get your men out on the walls - what refugees will come from Lakarian will be pursued. Ocett-”

“What about the Deathless’s message?” Princess Iliana demanded, looking outraged. “What is the good in his coming if he arrives too late to be of any use?”

“We must presume that he will not,” the king said grimly. “Take a message to the chamberlain, Iliana. We must ready ourselves for a siege.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary.” The voice was very soft, but it cut through the hubbub all the same. It was then that Koschei the Deathless stepped out from the shadow of the pillars, his golden eyes gleaming as the crowd parted around him, as if he were diseased.

And it was the Deathless. No mortal man had eyes like that, or skin that glistened faintly golden in the torchlight. No mortal man would look so entirely calm, either, in a city that was, or would soon be, besieged by ogres from every side. He was tall, thin, long-haired, unshaven, Garak would almost have called his appearance slovenly if it weren’t for the naked value of his velvet cloak, which swept the floor and shone with the odd blue-black lustre of a raven’s feathers. And he was beautiful. He could not have been much more than twenty, Garak thought, maybe twenty-five at the most...or he couldn’t, if he were a mortal man. But he wasn’t. This was likely only an illusion, covering over...Garak did not like to imagine what. And even if it weren’t, handsome masters were as likely to be cruel as plain ones.

“I got your message,” the Deathless said pleasantly, almost casually, without so much as a perfunctory bow in acknowledgement of the king’s status. “It sounded rather urgent. What is it that you wanted from me?

The king swallowed. He looked, for a moment, very old. Well, he was - Tain’s age, maybe even older - but he had never seemed it before. “An end,” he said gravely. “To the war.”

“...which war?” the Deathless said, affecting a bewildered look.  “I tend to lose track, you know how it is...”

Princess Iliana glared at him. “ _The_ war,” she said crisply, “The Ogre Wars.”

“You mean to say those aren’t over yet?” the Deathless said, sounding almost dismayed. “It’s been...how long, two hundred years? Three?”

“The ogres never left our borders,” the king said harshly. “ _Please_. We have gold, in abundance, take as much as you like, only-”

“I can’t do that.” The Deathless’s voice was even softer now, almost sorrowful. He _pitied_ them, Garak realised, with a sharp stab of utterly useless, purposeless indignation. “I’m sorry.”

“You can’t?” the princess demanded, looking stricken. “You’re the greatest sorcerer in seven kingdoms, you’ve beaten them back before-”

The Deathless bowed his head. “I can end your war,” he admitted. “Defeat the ogres, send them howling back to the other side of the world, if you ask it...but I cannot take your gold.”

“Why not?”

“Because you have it in abundance.” The Deathless said, almost gently, “All magic requires sacrifice. If a man with a thousand cows gives one away, that is nothing. But a man who has only one, and sacrifices it all the same...that is worthy of notice. That would be enough. I shall need a volunteer.”

A ripple of whispers went around the room, and Garak saw the princess start forward. This would be his part.

“I volunteer,” he said, stepping forwards, and feeling every eye in the room upon him. He smiled, because he was expected to be solemn, and gave a shallow little bow to the throne, and to the Deathless.

The Deathless looked blindsided for a moment before he recovered himself. “...thank you,” he said, “Er...and you are?”

“My name is Garak.”

“You’re very kind, Master Garak,” the Deathless said, with just a hint of irony in the smoothness of his voice.

“Just Garak,” Garak corrected, “Plain, simple Garak. And, ah, may I inquire as to your intentions, now that I _have_ volunteered?”

The Deathless raised his eyebrows, “Are you asking if I mean to ask your no doubt honourable father for your hand in marriage?” he said, so flatly that Garak might have thought he was making a joke, had the Deathless been anything but what he was. As it was, the hairs went up on the back of his neck, and his eyes carefully did not flick up to where Tain stood, in the shadows at the far back of the room, watching the scene play out.

“Regrettably, he is in no position to answer,” Garak lied, with another wide, false smile. “But yes, if that is your price, I will.”

“But our laws-!” Lady Makbar protested, and a whole wave of other voices followed her, only to break on the Deathless’s silence and the thunderclap that interrupted their protests. Even without their lives in the balance, who among them could deny the Deathless anything, if he decided that for some reason he wanted it?

“I think,” the king said, his voice not shaking, although it seemed a near-run thing, “That you will find there is no actual law _against_ it. You assent to this freely and of your own will, Garak?”

Garak nodded, “I think we can all agree that this is far preferable to seeing everyone being torn limb from limb by marauding ogres, sire.”

The king huffed, but then, he had never cared for Tain or Garak, and would not tolerate them in his court if he could find any pretext on which to legally expel them. The Deathless still had not spoken. He looked more than a little taken aback, Garak saw, with a certain malicious pleasure. Well, if he had intended this offer to convince them to give him something more valuable - the Princess Iliana, perhaps, since anyone who had heard of Koschei had heard of him devouring the hearts of young maidens, and Garak was a long way from that - he had been stymied so thoroughly he could not now back out without making an open demand, and that did not seem to be his way.

“...fine,” he said at last, blinking. “Fine. If...if you’re prepared for it. You...you do realise that this is permanent, don’t you? This, of all contracts...it can’t be easily put aside.”

“We must all make some sacrifices,” Garak said virtuously. A wife - well, a husband in this case - was in a far better position to learn their husband’s secrets than any servant could be to learn their master’s. And it wasn’t as if Garak had no taste for men, or had not been obliged to seduce them before. It was not even that the Deathless himself was not to Garak’s taste, although the odd golden sheen to his skin was strange and unsettling and made Garak wonder absurdly if it would come off on his hands when he touched it.

The Deathless spread his hands in an oddly resigned sort of gesture, for the creature who had brought all of this about. “...apparently we must.”

Cardassia had no clerics, no faith, no fairies who came to bless marriages and births, but no holy man, no fairy would have blessed this marriage anyway. They had been given a little stay of time to make things ready, for all that Garak had no family who would acknowledge him, and the Deathless, so far as anyone knew, had none at all. A union of two people, rather than two houses, could never be a very great affair, and in wartime even less. It would be no great loss to Garak either way. Within minutes, the bargain was made, and the Deathless went up onto the city walls to perform whatever magic it was with which he would save them. Garak would have to ask about that - there was no sense in acquiring power one did not know how to use - but for now he simply watched the tall figure high on the ramparts, pacing back and forth with his long cloak streaming out behind him.

“That was quite a display back there,” said a voice at Garak’s ear. Tain’s voice, and Garak’s heart sank as he turned to meet him. Tain would not have been obviously angry to anyone who did not know him well, but to anyone who did, his rage was immediately apparent. “Could you find no neater way to arrange it?”

“I saw an opportunity,” Garak said, and shrugged, “I don’t think it was my hand he wanted, but now the king owes you a favour, and I am in a far better position to gather information than I would be in servants’ quarters.”  
Tain made a noise in his throat that might have been begrudging approval. “And if he’d pressed the issue?”

“And if he’d accepted the gold?” Garak answered, shrugging. “We gambled, and we have won a higher prize than either of us expected. I would call _that_ a victory.”

“Would you? I am surprised. I never thought you cared for these assignments.”

What Garak cared for, they both knew, had never mattered. “I don’t. But he didn’t ask for a servant. What was it you used to tell me? Never keep to any plan so strictly that you cannot take a better opportunity when it appears?”

“A servant might have greater freedom of movement,” Tain said tersely, “If he doesn’t let you see any more than his bedchamber, that could prove...troublesome.”

“I hardly think _that_ will be a problem.”

Quite why the Deathless had accepted Garak in place of the princess, Garak had no idea, but it wasn’t out of desire. The Deathless had hardly looked at him since their bargain had been made, had offered a way out as if it were his own safety and not Garak’s he was bargaining for. Was he bound, then, to accept any bargain he was offered? It seemed an odd prohibition. But Cardassia would be free of the ogres, and may yet be a greater power than any other kingdom. Even if it were not...Garak had meant it, when he’d offered. Without the plan, he would have made the same offer. His life, for Cardassia. It was a more than fair bargain, even if he was dead inside a month, though he had no intention of letting that be the end of it.

It was nightfall, in the end, before the Deathless came down from the walls, and the storm still had not abated. There would be no feast cooked by their families to mark the sharing of their resources and the mingling of their blood. Mila would not be the one to present Garak to his new husband’s family, or receive the Deathless into hers. They had an audience, though. That was one part of the formal rite for which they did not lack.

Within a circle of gaping onlookers, they faced one another, the Deathless in his velvet cloak and soft black gloves - kidskin, Garak thought, or possibly calf - and Garak in workaday green, not the blue and scarlet of a true wedding. The Deathless’s face was set, and he seemed almost nervous as he cleared his throat to open the ceremony.

“I, who come here, am called Koschei Bessmertny,” the Deathless said, in a careful, level voice, as if afraid he’d forget the words. “Son of…” he broke off, “You wouldn’t have heard of him,” he said, shaking his head. “Come here this day to be enjoined.”

“I, who come here, am called Elim Garak, son of Tolan and Mila. Come here this day to be enjoined,” Garak repeated after him, hating the feeling of so many eyes upon him, so many ears to hear this admission. One wasn’t technically supposed to lie in an enjoining oath, but it was the man who married, not the name, and if ‘Bessmertny’ were truly the Deathless’s family name Garak would begin telling truths again.

He realised, suddenly, that he hadn’t made time to find a knife for the enjoining, and slipped his own blade from his sleeve for lack of any other. The Deathless nearly jerked back, for all no dagger could truly hurt him, and then went still as Garak presented him the dagger, hilt-first.

“I take you for my- husband,” Garak said plainly, barely stumbling. In the crowd, his eyes found Pythas, and he jerked them away before they lingered too long. “May our lives and our lines be joined from this day on.”

The Deathless blinked. He looked almost puzzled for a moment, but then reached for the glove on his right hand, and pulled it away, to reveal-

In the crowd, someone screamed, and there were gasps and whispers, but the Deathless’s eyes did not leave Garak’s. His hand really was bone, then, Garak thought, looking at it. No flesh, no muscle, just gleaming bones that moved as smoothly as a flesh-and-blood hand. As he watched, the Deathless reached across, and cleanly snapped off the last two joints of his least finger, as if it were nothing. It was not the worst act of mutilation Garak had ever seen. Not even the worst he had ever inflicted. And yet it felt- felt wrong, to see the clean white bone lying there in the black leather palm of Koschei’s glove. Koschei’s fingers closed around it, and when they opened again, he held a bone-handled knife, sharp and cruelly curved, which he held out to Garak.

“I have no line,” he said, “And my life is...not really something I can offer. But I _do_ take you for my husband, if you’re willing.”

“I’ve already agreed, haven’t I?” Garak felt obliged to point out, though it disrupted the ritual terribly.

The Deathless looked away. “I take it that’s us married, then?”

“As much of it as can be done in public,” Garak said, if only to find out if it was possible to make the Deathless blush. There was a flash of lightning outside the castle, and Garak was reminded again of what manner of man it was he had just bound himself to,  


The Deathless clapped his hands together, and turned to face the crowd. “Well,” he said, with patently false brightness, “Now that’s over with…you will find your lands restored. Not quite as they were, but the worst of the destruction is gone. Call it a wedding gift. And now, I’d best be on my way - you might want to take my arm,” he added, glancing at Garak, “This will feel very strange at first. Congratulations,” he added, grinning at the king and Princess Iliana and the whole court, showing far too many sharp, white teeth. “You’ve won.”

Another crack of thunder, and they were gone.


End file.
